


To Be Alone With You

by MsMorpheus



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Bondage, Consensual Kink, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:49:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5643148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsMorpheus/pseuds/MsMorpheus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nora can't wait to get John Hancock into bed, so she brings him to an abandoned vault for some privacy. Lucky for her, he feels the same way. Girl-on-ghoul smut with affectionate kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Alone With You

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, and welcome to ghoul-loving trash hell. It's quite nice here.
> 
> This is a smutty fic which contains coarse language, explicit descriptions of people having enthusiastic sexy times, and safe, consensual kink mostly involving bondage (Hancock also plays with his knife a little but no one gets hurt).
> 
> Could be read as a follow-up to 'One Last Ride' but works just fine on its own.

Nora feels strangely nervous walking up to the gates of Goodneighbor, wonders if Hancock will even recognize her after all this time. The ghoul’s astonished grin when he sees her makes her happier than she has a right to be. Nora tries not to read too much into that: she likes him. Everyone likes him. Even Strong likes him, and it took the mutant ages to warm up to her. True to form, Hancock throws a blowout party at the Third Rail to celebrate her return, charming the pants off an entire town in the space of an evening. And he was leaving them all behind to go along with her.

He’s fun to travel with. That rakish smile of his makes her feel dizzy… and she’s started to have certain thoughts about him. More than once, she catches him checking her out when her back is turned. Nora decides to flirt, just to see what would happen. 

“Like the view?” She’s setting up a long-range sniper shot, leaning forward to brace against a boulder.

“Damn right I do.” 

He says it slowly, words rolling off his tongue like pouring honey. Nora feels warm and flustered: it takes her three shots to take the head off a raider. Hancock doesn’t seem to mind. 

From then on it’s flirty glances, playful banter, and frustrated nights alone in rusty beds. They rarely sleep unaccompanied: a settlement’s sleeping quarters might have a dozen people packed in. Privacy usually means holing up in a crumbling shack, weeks since their last bath, taking turns standing watch for all the nasty things that stalk and crawl through the Commonwealth night. 

One night they sleep in a sewer, and Nora decides she’s had enough. She has an idea: one that means sharing a little more about herself with Hancock. 

“Hey, Hancock. Want to go on a treasure hunt?”

“With you? Sign me up.”

She tells him about the vault. Not a Vault, a miniature ecosystem built by Vault-Tec to help a tribe of humans survive hundreds of years in isolation, but a small, private fallout shelter. It was built by a woman with the means to build a small oasis for herself and her “friend”, which two hundred years ago would have been the socially acceptable way to say girlfriend, if the concept of two women together had been socially acceptable whatsoever. The friend in question was an ex-girlfriend of Nora’s.

“You mean stockpiles of booze? And clean beds? And hot water that falls from the ceiling?”

“If the shelter’s intact. And two skeletons, if all went well.”

“Yeah, that might be rough. You sure you wanna go?”

“It was my idea. Besides, there’s good stuff in there. I helped stock the vault.”

And so they set off. As it turns out, the entire neighborhood was flattened during the war: finding the right house is tricky, but it doesn’t take them long to clear debris from the blast doors. Nora knows the code to the outer hatch, but needs to hack the terminal inside to open the vault. She’s just getting to work when the tinny voice of a Mr. Handy calls out:

“I beg your pardon, ma’am. Who goes there?”

It takes a while to convince the robot to let them in. Her friends never made it to the vault, and the poor thing had spent the last two hundred years caretaking an empty shelter. When she tells the robot that Codsworth is alive and well in Sanctuary, it leaves immediately, stopping only to sweep up the dirt tracked in by Hancock and Nora’s boots.

The blast doors close and the shelter falls into silence. Hancock pads around in his socks, running his fingertips along pristine countertops, marvelling at the perfectly preserved furniture, letting out a slow whistle of appreciation.

“Nice haunt. Where’s the bar?”

“Cellar, actually.” She can barely believe it herself. “I think this calls for a celebration.”

She opens a bottle of amarone, and has to explain the concept of letting wine breathe before you drink it. Hancock doesn’t seem to believe her, but gives her the benefit of the doubt. 

“So what’s the catch with the hot water ceiling?”

“The shower? No catch, the fusion core’s nearly at full power. Want to try it out?” Nora’s voice catches, realizing she might have just invited Hancock to shower with her. 

“You go first, beautiful. I want to look around some more.” 

The rain shower is every bit as wonderful as she remembered. It feels deliciously good to be clean again. Nora can't stop thinking about Hancock joining her: sinewy arms lifting her up, pressing her back against the tiles, wrapping her legs around his waist for a slow sweet fuck, soap-slicked skin sliding against the ridges of his taut belly. She sits down in the steamy shower and closes her eyes, fingers fumbling between her legs, scalding water coursing down her body as she pleasures herself, biting her lip to stay quiet when she finds badly needed release. 

Nora emerges from the bathroom wearing a silk robe, fluffy slippers, and a very healthy glow. Hancock looks up from the brahmin steak he’s cooking for dinner, and nearly drops his spatula. 

“How’s pre-war life treating you so far?”

“Not bad. Looks damn good on you.”

“I clean up alright. Your turn, gorgeous.” Hancock’s already heading for the bathroom: she doesn’t see him flinch at the compliment.

They feast on brahmin steak, savouring a glass of two hundred year-old wine. Nora had to open three bottles to find one that hadn’t turned to vinegar, but the look on Hancock’s face when he tries it is priceless, dark eyes wide as saucers. He had a hard time getting the temperature right in the shower, but says it’s much better than a cold sponge bath. Somehow, he manages to look stylish wearing his tricorn hat with a terrycloth bathrobe. 

They’re alone, safe, warm, and clean. He’s been calling her beautiful, looking at her as though he means it. And yet he keeps his distance from her, leaving a respectful space on the couch between them. Heart pounding, Nora takes a sip of wine and breaks the silence.

“Can I ask you an inappropriate question, Hancock?”

“That’s my favorite kind.”

She looks straight into his midnight eyes, gives him an evil smile, drapes her arm along the back of the couch and leans towards him, her robe parting open to flash a little skin. 

“Do you want to fuck me?”

Hancock nearly chokes on his wine.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said…”

Hancock shakes his head. He reaches up, strokes her cheek with ruined fingers. “You don’t want this.”

“You don’t get to tell me what I want, Hancock. I want you.” Nora takes his hand, planting a kiss on his palm. She’s seen burns before, once had a friend whose arm was injured in a fire, and she doesn’t care. Hancock shudders when she runs her tongue along the length of his index finger, taking the tip into her mouth. He growls, long and low.

“Call me John.” It’s more a command than a request. She likes it.

Nora leans forward a little more, robe falling scandalously open, watches the sparks in his eyes turn to flames. “Do you want to fuck me, John?”

She gasps as he sweeps her up, kisses her like a hurricane, arms around her squeezing tight enough to take her breath away. When his grip eases, Nora slides her arms up around his neck, giggling softly as she plants kiss after kiss on his hungry mouth.

“Yes, love,” he rasps between kisses, “I do.”

Hancock’s mouth splits open in a wolfish grin, his gaze travelling unapologetically down to the sash of her robe. She reaches down to untie it for him: he stops her, wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer.

“Not so fast. I want to play first.”

“Do people still use safewords?” Nora’s feeling unhinged, needs to know what she’s getting in to.

“Of course.” Hancock’s surprised, but doesn’t show it.

“Buttercup, then.”

He laughs. “Buttercup it is. For both of us.”

He kisses her again, one hand sliding up along her thigh, reaching around to cup her ass, discovering lace. He lets his fingertips play along the edges, coming close enough to her sex to make her moan, teasing her. His tongue forces its way into her mouth, and she starts to get some very specific ideas as to what he can do with it. 

Rough fingers slide down into her underwear, and it’s his turn to gasp when he realizes how wet she is, and how smooth. 

“Used to be in fashion. Hope you don’t mind.” 

Hancock can’t manage a coherent response: he’s already dropped down to kneel on the floor, hands pulling her hips forward to the edge of the couch, spreading her legs wide, mouth pressed hot and insistent against the thin triangle of lace. Her scent is intoxicating. He needs to see her, right now. 

“John, what are you…”

He shows her the knife, the wild gleam in his eye making her wonder if this might be too much. He sees her fear, knows how much the rush of adrenaline could heighten her pleasure, but only if she feels safe.

“Do you trust me, love?”

“Y- yes…”

“I promise not to hurt you. Not unless you ask me to. I can put this away.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He runs the flat of the blade along her inner thighs, leaving kisses in its path. Nora’s at her limit, safeword dancing on her tongue, but she trusts him with her life, trusts him enough to let him slide his blade between lace and skin with delicate precision, barely a sound as the fabric falls away and she’s trembling and exposed, every nerve lit up, slumping backward into couch cushions while Hancock takes his sweet time examining her sex. He kisses her desire-swollen labia, so gently it feels like worship. Nora lets out a soft moan.

He parts her with his tongue, working her with long strokes, sucking at her clit when she’s ready to handle it, fingers exploring until they find her sweet spot. Nora gives up trying to figure out exactly what’s happening, knows he’s enjoying it immensely. There’s indescribable pressure building in her core, a promise that something very powerful is about to happen. It feels like an atom bomb waiting to go off. Much to her embarrassment, she whimpers and arches her hips.

“Say my name, beautiful. I love to hear you say it.” His words hum against her sex. She doesn’t normally go for that sort of thing, but coming from him…

“John. Fuck, John. Please, don’t stop…” 

Nora feels herself cresting the wave, swept up by forces beyond her control and bursting with a climax so good she can hardly contain it, throat opening to let out a long guttural moan. He sucks her eagerly, drawing out every last shudder. She lies boneless, feeling empty as Hancock’s fingers slide out from between her legs. After a while she opens her eyes, sees him looking pleased with himself, grinning ear to ear as he watches her. 

Something about that grin makes her want to wipe it off his face.

She stands up on wobbly legs, Hancock still kneeling in front of her, and slides her robe off her shoulders, silk falling to the floor with dramatic flourish. His jaw drops. She steadies herself and walks naked into the bedroom, turning back to smile at him when she passes through the doorway. Hancock isn’t far behind, and she wastes no time telling him what she wants.

“Lie on the bed. Face down, please.” He cocks what would have been an eyebrow, but does as she says. He isn’t about to argue with a beautiful naked woman. Nora slides pillows under his chest and hips. Hancock starts to breathe very quickly.

A large wooden cabinet towers in the corner of the bedroom, ornamented with a bit too much hardware, the curves of its scrollwork somehow obscene. It would have served well as a witch’s cabinet of curiosities. Nora opens the latch with a menacing clank, knows that Hancock can’t see inside from his current position. 

“Whatchya doing over there, love?”

“I helped stock the vault, remember? My friends had… interesting appetites.” She says it as innocently as she can manage.

Nora takes her time investigating the contents of the cabinet, making him wait. She runs her fingers over a pile of silk scarves, dreams of tying them lovingly around his wrists, but decides it’s too soon even for that. Hancock’s been keeping himself carefully covered up: even now he has his robe wrapped tightly around him. Before anything else, she needs to make him feel comfortable. She takes out a bottle of scented oil and closes the cabinet. 

Nora kneels on the bed next to his head, oils her hands, and begins to massage his scalp. She starts with the crown, taking time to nuzzle his earlobes as she works her way slowly down to his neck, enjoying the happy little noises he’s making. His bathrobe gets in her way, so she runs her fingers along the edges.

“I’d like to keep going, if I may.”

He laughs. “Do you want my knife?” Good. He’s getting comfortable.

“Knives aren’t one of my talents.” Hancock reaches underneath to loosen his sash, and Nora keeps stroking down his shoulders and back, pulling down the robe a few inches at a time. From a practical standpoint it isn’t one of her best massages: her kisses keep getting in the way of her hands, lavishing attention on every part of his skin. She can’t resist making a few playful nips on his gorgeous ass. Hancock is starting to figure out that she doesn’t mind him being a ghoul.

At last she finishes with his back, and asks him to turn over so she can continue. Nora gets a full view of what she has to look forward to, makes herself save that part for last. She can’t stop herself from smiling, though. Massaging his front is more of a challenge: he can see her now, and his hands keep reaching up to touch her even though she swats them away.

“No helping, John. Do I have to tie you down?”

She isn’t prepared for the look he gives her. No words exist to describe that look, other than to say that the last time Hancock used it, the fortunate recipient found himself wandering lost through the alleys of Goodneighbor three days later, broke and without pants, having very little idea of what had just happened to him but certain it was the best time of his life.

“Unf.” Nora waits for the room to stop spinning. She takes the silk scarves and a pair of safety scissors out of the cabinet, making a show of straddling Hancock’s chest to tie him up, giving him one last chance to run his hands wherever he wants. He’s smudging oil more or less everywhere, and for a moment she forgets why she’s holding scarves. One breast finds its way into his eager mouth; long fingers spread her open.

“You’re not very good at this, are you?”

Nora makes a noise she isn’t very proud of, and smacks him with a pillow. 

Before he has time to distract her again, she wraps one wrist securely in silk, snug but not too tight. She leaves a bit of slack when she ties his arms and legs to the bedposts, giving him room to squirm. He tests his bonds, looking pleased.

Now she can resume her earlier task, and there are so many places on his body she hasn’t kissed yet. It’s her turn to give him a wolfish grin, slowly exploring every part of him except for his magnificent, painfully engorged cock. He writhes against his bonds, and she slows down even more. The sound he makes when at last she licks the droplets of desire from the tip of his cock… she shudders in sympathy. And when she takes him deep into her mouth, hot and wet and all at once, she almost feels sorry for him.

She works him without mercy, guided by his ragged breathing and occasional moans, bringing him roaring to the brink of release, not letting him finish. His eyes are half-closed, his moans desperate, and she’s fairly certain he’s thinking about Buttercup.

“Tell me what you want, John.”

He growls, arching his back. 

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme. Please.”

She loses it at _please_. Nora kisses him full on the mouth, breasts chafing against his uneven skin, feels his powerful thighs trembling as he fights the urge to drive himself up into her. 

“Anything you want, my love,” she says, purring into his ear as her hand wraps tight around his cock, kissing his neck as she guides him to her cleft, wet and ready, rising up as she impales herself on him, gasping to catch her breath as he fills her, too much to be comfortable, stretched to her limit.

She rides him slowly at first, letting him spread her open again and again, grinding her clit against him when she takes him to the hilt. Hancock can’t help but buck his hips, and she starts to match the pace he demands, feeling his muscles beneath her growing taut as ropes. Nora wants to give him a climax he’ll never forget. She knows what he needs to hear.

Her grind is harder now, his cock deep in her. Nora lets go of what little composure she has left, looks straight into his midnight eyes, lets out a moan that seems to come from her core. 

“John… fucking… Hancock…”

And she comes, vision turning to fireworks, Hancock writhing and bound beneath her, immense waves of pleasure seeming to pass through him right into her, crying out his name. 

Nora finds herself lying with her head on his chest, not remembering how it got there. His heart is racing so quickly she can’t count the beats. 

“Holy fuck, Nora.”

She unties him, showering kisses on the marks left on his wrists and ankles, then on his face and mouth, and a few other places for good measure. Hancock basks in her affection, struggling to fight exhaustion, and falls asleep. 

He wakes up to find Nora curled against him, his hand rising and falling with her ribcage as she breathes. He lies quietly and matches his breath to hers, deliriously happy.

In the morning neither of them know what to say, so they grin sheepishly at one another instead. In the kitchen Nora wraps her arms around his waist, nuzzling the back of his neck while he cooks pancakes. Hancock asks her to show him how to set the shower temperature, and they kiss in steamy bliss until the hot water runs out. They dress and curl up on the couch together with books from the shelter’s library, neither of them paying much attention to the words. At last Hancock breaks the silence.

“I want you, Nora.”

“I want you too, John.”

“I want you to be _mine_.” 

She would have answered, but his mouth is hot on hers, his thumb encircling a stiffening nipple, his body shifting to pin her down onto the couch.

“Any rope in that treasure chest of yours, beautiful?”

“Lots of it. Why?”

“Your friends aren’t the only ones with interesting appetites.” 

He was giving her that look again.

Deft hands have her stripped in moments. Strong sinewy arms carry her into the bedroom, place her gently on the bed, throw open the latch to the cabinet. Hancock stares at the contents, not sure what half of it’s for, decides he’s going to find out if Nora lets him. But right now all he wants is the rope.

Hancock takes out a heavy coil of braided cotton: it’s softer than he’s used to. He measures out the lengths he needs, slicing off long pieces with his knife. Nora sits on the bed, watching him work, pulse quickening as she realizes he knows what he’s doing. She looks over at the safety scissors left out from the night before, catches Hancock’s eye, feels reassured when he nods solemnly back. 

“You know the word.”

“Buttercup,” she says, savouring it, skin tingling in anticipation.

“Close your eyes.” And so she does.

Nora enters a dreamlike state as Hancock binds her in a karada, rope criss-crossing decoratively around her breasts and belly, wrapping down along her labia and up across the flesh of her ass. She’s vividly aware of her body, stiffening when he pulls a knot tight in the small of her back, purring when he takes her wrists behind her and ties them together. 

Hancock steps back to admire his work.

“Mine,” he says, guiding her to kneel, binding her thighs to her ankles. She wriggles a little, feels a thrill when she realizes she can’t stand up.

Nora wants very badly to open her eyes. She hears a rustle of fabric, feels his sash blindfold her. It smells pleasantly of him.

“Are you comfortable?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good.” 

He kisses her. His lips are gentle, his touch reverent as he strokes her body. Nora feels wrapped in his warmth, his scent: in that moment he is her entire world. It feels dreamy, romantic, until he pulls tighter on the ropes between her legs, laughing softly as she moans.

“Bastard.”

“You know it, love.”

He slides a single finger into her, circles her clit with his thumb until she whimpers. He isn’t about to forget what she did to him the night before. He kisses her neck, her breasts, still tormenting her with slow, sweet strokes below. Nora tries to hide her need but her body betrays her, his fingers slick with her desire.

Hancock kisses her on the mouth, rough this time. Nora feels him grip her waist, toss her belly-down on the bed, wrists still tied behind her, ankles bound tight to her thighs. She struggles to keep her knees together as strong hands pull them apart. His breath is hot on her neck, his fingers finding her clit and bringing her painfully close to release.

“Please, John.”

“No.”

Two fingers enter her, feeling exquisite but not enough, and just as her moans grow louder again he stops abruptly, shocking her with a cold metal blade at the small of her back. She freezes, nerves on razor’s edge.

Slowly now. Fingers slide in and out, blade tracing ever so carefully across her back, cutting off her bindings strand by strand. Not a scratch on her skin, the last knot of her harness gives way and she exhales, trembling.

And then he takes her.

Nora screams, tears are streaming down her face and every shred of pent-up tension is releasing all at once. Hancock isn’t holding anything back: she needs him every bit as much as he needs her. He rides her hard, her sweet cunt impossibly tight around him, nearly loses his mind when she comes. Nora’s body is shaking and she’s begging him for more.

He turns her over onto her back: Nora moans when he enters her, caresses her, wraps his arms around her and makes love to her. When he can’t hold back his climax any longer, he cries out her name as he releases into her. Nora throws her arms around his neck and starts to giggle as she kisses him. Her senses are overloaded and it’s all too much and she’s in love with this wretchedly handsome ghoul. Hancock’s chest is bursting: he’s dizzy and happy and he feels like he’s found his missing piece.

“I love you, Nora.”

“I love you too, John. Let’s stay here a while.”


End file.
